


the night is young but so are we

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep, you think, has always been an issue for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the night is young but so are we

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a few headcanons from pirate's (pyrates@tumblr's) blog 8'O

Sleep, you think, has always been an issue for you.

You’re pretty sure your bro has trouble sleeping too, but you’ve gotten used to moving around every other night or so trying to find a restful place; you’ve been living with John long enough that you think he’s probably used to it, too, if the blanket you find draped over you every morning it happens is evidence enough. You’re pretty sure you’ve been everywhere in the tiny apartment the two of you share: sprawled halfway on the couch and halfway off, under the kitchen table which was a dumb idea but one you were desperate enough to try, even lazily reclined in the bathtub at one point.

(He’d asked if you were drunk, then, even though he knew better—you’re no alcoholic and you’ve never been, but you’d promised you wouldn’t do any of that getting wasted shit at the start of this whole romantic venture.)

John’s already gone to class when you finally bother to get up from your position on the kitchen counter, which holy shit was a bad idea because your back hurts like hell. Your shades are right where you left them last night, sitting on the counter next to your head. (They aren’t usually on your face when you’re in the room, anyways, since it’s kind of unnecessary.) You don’t even have to glance at a clock to know that you’re up way too early. The only class you have today is a late one and that leaves you the entire morning to do some work, go out somewhere, or wait around aimlessly until John gets back.

You sigh and start making yourself a giant bowl of Lucky Charms, heading for the TV remote.

:

Two movies later, footsteps thump up the stairs and reach your ears through thin walls at about the same time your iPhone decides to go off. Busy checking out the email now sitting in your inbox, you don’t look up as John enters the scene through the door, greeting you with a cheerful hello and setting his stuff down noisily by the sofa before plopping his butt right on down.

“I don’t have anywhere to go tonight,” you inform him casually, shoving your phone back into your pocket. This is the second time this month that that particular class has been cancelled. You’re sort of hoping John will take this opportunity to do something with you while he can, but you’re not so desperate that you’d ask him.

“Great! Wanna watch a movie? Someone lent me Insidious—apparently the story’s actually pretty good.” You’re already a little done with movies today but if John wants to watch one, damn it, you are watching another one. Only…

“Didn’t know you were into the horror genre.” It’s difficult to keep that bit of trepidation out of your voice.

“Oh,” he laughs, “You’re not scared, are you, Dave?”

“Nah, I can handle that shit. I’m just worried about your fragile state of mind.”

“Yeah, right. Hand me the remote in a second,” he requests, kneeling on the floor in front of the TV in order to replace the DVD currently inhabiting the disk player with the borrowed one. You obediently relinquish possession of the television remote to him as he sits back down.

John skips the ads at the beginning, you get up to make some popcorn while the opening credits roll (he complains a little about missing things but you refuse to sit through your third movie in a row without some damn popcorn), and when you sit back down you immediately prepare yourself for what is probably a dumb film anyways.

:

You are Dave Strider and nothing fazes you, not even the clusterfuck of stupid puppets you’d had to live with most of your life. Those _had_ been pretty creepy, you’d admit that much, but—

Creepy puppets don’t have background music and sound effects.

John has fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how you looked at it) been huddled close enough to where every startled twitch you couldn’t help would have been completely conspicuous. He pulls away now that the film is over, stretches slowly with a sigh of relief, and then glances at your face and laughs. “Dude, no offense, but you look kind of pale.”

“It’s cool,” you reply, taking the opportunity to roll your admittedly tensed up shoulders. “Who would even be scared of dumb fake shit like that.”

“I didn’t really accuse you of being scared, but sure, Dave, whatever you say,” comes John’s retort, and you’re not surprised to see him grinning from ear to ear when you frown at him just slightly. “I’m going to bed, I’m beat.”

“Sure, I’ll be somewhere.” You’re running out of places to sleep, to be honest, but you’ll find somewhere comfortable someday.

“All right, as long as you’re not scared,” John teases one last time before turning and disappearing into the bathroom, to get his pajamas on you guess. You should probably do the same but _holy shit what was that._

Okay. This isn’t a top-rate apartment, creaking sounds aren’t unheard of, and the fact that the only source of light in the room is coming from the television screen means nothing. You repeat that to yourself one more time, just so your next swallow isn’t as nervous as the last one. You are Dave Strider and nothing fazes you, not even— _fuck_ , if you had sleeping problems before, you are sure as hell gonna have them now. What if some freaky shit is going on while you sleep? That’d been the whole point of the movie, right? Freaky shit and sleeping?

 

You force yourself to shut off both the DVD player and the TV just as John calls out one last way-too-peppy goodnight. (He knows he’s gotten under your skin, he just _knows._ )

Sitting in the dark for a few seconds, holding your breath without realizing it, you finally shake yourself out of whatever momentary lapse in standard Strider cool you’ve just experienced and get up, aiming to find somewhere to sleep because sleep is definitely a thing that needs to happen. You almost trip over something bulky on your way to the kitchen and have to tell yourself furiously after a pretty embarrassing flinch that it’s only John’s bag, no supernatural beings or demons here, nope.

You only recall once you’re physically standing in the tiny kitchen that that’s where the creaking sound came from: you glance around suspiciously even though there is absolutely _nothing to be suspicious of_ and turn around to leave. Why would you even want to sleep in the kitchen in the first place. It has nothing to do with any creaking sounds; you’ve probably already tried sleeping in every possible place in the kitchen anyways.

The only spot in the apartment you haven’t tried, in fact, is John’s bed.

You push that though out of your mind before you can think too much on it. John would be really uncomfortable with that, you know it, and you might not bring it up ever but neither does he, and that must mean something.

Something in the kitchen makes a sound again and you find yourself hurriedly walking (shit, it’s hard to see in the dark, why would John not even turn a light on, why haven’t _you_ turned a light on) to the doorway to the bedroom and slipping inside. You end up just kind of standing there hoping you don’t wake John up or anything, you’re just a little less concerned about things knowing that he’s in here, when:

“Dave, what are you doing?”

Well shit, seems like he hasn’t even tried to sleep yet, never mind accidentally waking him up. John sounds wide awake, scooting over when you lift up the covers on the bed without you even having to ask.

Your face is schooled into a carefully calm expression. Striders always know exactly what they’re doing.

“You’re probably scared shitless, so I’m here to keep the demons away. Move over a little more.”

“Sure, but shouldn’t you change clothes?”

“Nah,” you say, pulling the covers back up over both you and John’s shoulders.

You wait a while for him to comment on how weird it is to be sharing a bed, but he never says anything beyond a single and murmured, “This is nice.” After that you guess he falls asleep. You stare at his face in the dark before rolling over so that your back is to him, trying to calm your racing heart. Jesus, what is wrong with you, you’ve been going steady for long enough, sharing a bed is nothing. John obviously has no issues with it.

Worrying about bed sharing makes you forget why you climbed into the bed in the first place, but only for a moment—the creeping sense of dread that suspenseful films always give you comes back strong and won’t leave you alone.

John’s breathing is deep and peaceful beside you and you are colored crayon green with envy.

He’s sleeping anyways, he won’t notice; you roll over as quietly as you can and shift a little closer, pausing to see if he wakes up.

(He doesn’t.)

You tuck your face neatly into the crook of his neck, inhale inaudibly, and are asleep within the next ten minutes.

:

John doesn’t comment on the tangled up state he finds both himself and you in when he wakes up the next morning, but he has some words the next night.

“C’mon, you actually _slept_ last night. You’re sleeping in the bed with me again and that’s that.”

There’s no reason for you to argue, and he’s right, you did sleep pretty damn well. Still, you try not to look _too_ happy about it. “Sure, whatever.”

You get the feeling that he can see right through you, like he always does, or he at least ignores your flippant attitude about it, smiling widely instead. You train your eyes on something else—at least, you do right up until he takes both your hands in his, spreading his palms lethargically against yours and it’s warm and really tender you guess and then he laces your fingers together just as lazily, smiling the whole time, and oh hell you can _feel_ your face go red. John laughs softly at that and leans forward to kiss you, mouth almost a gentle caress against yours: it sends pleasant warmth through you and there’s just enough time to kiss back a little before he’s pulling away.

“By the way,” he says. “if you don’t like horror movies you should have just told me. I mean, you were clinging to me really tight last night!” And then he’s gone, stealing the bathroom before you can even get one fragment of a sentence in.

Well shit.

:

You’re still trying to shake off the mortification resulting from the fact that he’d known you were creeped out by the movie enough to actually seek out human contact when you slide under the covers with him for the second time. John moves to accommodate you easily, literally cuddling up to you as soon as you settle into a comfortable position. It’s…pretty nice, you guess.

“G’night,” he murmurs, and his breath puffs out in warm little feather brushes against your throat.

“Night,” you reply quietly. You wait until his breathing has slowed and you’re sure he _has_ to be asleep before you mumble, “I love you,” and prepare to close your eyes until the next morning.

John snickers.

_Shit_ , of course he’s still awake _._ You consider tacking on a just kidding to that confession because that one snort is doing all kinds of things to your confidence levels that you’d rather not dwell upon—

“Love you, too,” he says, fondly, and with a grin you don’t have to be in a lit room to know is there.

You promptly shut your mouth.  

:

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the noticeable absence of a blanket draped over your body. John’s stolen them all sometime during the night; his legs are all tangled up in them, thrown across your own limbs, and he’d definitely moved around a bit while he was sleeping, given the fact that the covers are twined around his shoulders like seaweed on a sushi roll. He’s still cuddled up to you, though, which probably counts for something.

Sleep, you think, has always been an issue for you.

(But you could maybe—probably— _definitely_ get used to this.)


End file.
